


The Long Way Home

by withalacrity



Category: The Trip
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-20
Updated: 2011-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-27 15:12:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/297196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withalacrity/pseuds/withalacrity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten years, two careers, two BAFTAs (both Steve’s), two nights, too many feelings and two hundred miles between Manchester and London. Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon drive halfway across the country and get nowhere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Long Way Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [emef](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emef/gifts).



“I know what you’re thinking,” Rob drawled from the passenger seat. “This car ain’t big enough for the both of us.”

Steve reminded himself that it was nearly over. All he had to do was make it back to London without committing homicide, suicide or vehicular murder-suicide. Just keep it together for a few more hours and they’d never have to share a car ever again.

Easier said than done.

Rob had been picking at his teeth, on and off, for fifteen minutes. Steve knew because he’d been timing it on the dashboard. Fifteen minutes in a car with Rob was, at the best of times, a challenge. Fifteen minutes with Rob trying to keep up a conversation despite having a mouthful of fingers was excruciating. Steve had been ignoring him as much as possible, which meant that he only spotted Rob reaching for the glove compartment at the last minute. He smacked Rob’s hand away, nearly swerving into another lane as he abandoned the steering wheel in his haste.

“Christ,” Steve flashed an apology at the driver behind him. “Who said you could open that?”

Rob still had his eye on the glove compartment. “Do you have any old fliers?” he said. “Or a cinema ticket, maybe. I need a stiff card. Preferably laminated or glossy.”

“I don’t know,” Steve said, distracted. “Why would you-”

“Something has lodged itself between two back molars and I can’t shift it,” Rob said.

Steve shook his head. “You’ve lost me.”

“I’ve got a piece of breakfast stuck in my teeth. A bit of sausage gristle, I think. I need some makeshift floss,” Rob said. The hand was making its way back to his mouth. “Anything would do, I just need something longer than my fingernail.”

Steve had to actually look at him then. Just to see if it was all a joke that he hadn’t picked up on because he couldn’t see Rob’s face. Rob looked back, eyes wide and earnest. Either he was more subtle than Steve gave him credit for or he honestly didn’t realise how disgusting he was.

“Don’t touch my glove compartment,” Steve said. He heard nothing but revulsion in his voice and made no effort to disguise it. “Just- don’t touch _anything_ , okay? We’ll find a service station.”

There were probably some toothpicks in the glove compartment, he realised as they settled into uneasy silence. He didn’t like to be too far away from a toothpick if he could help it. But it was the principle of the thing. He kept a protective eye on the its handle.

Up ahead on the road, a sign slid into view promising toilets, petrol and a W. H. Smith in two miles. Rob made a noise of pathetic relief and Steve missed the exit on purpose.

*

The Range Rover hummed impatiently in the Welcome Break car park. Steve stared at the lines under his eyes in the rear view mirror and wondered how much they’d deepen over the next seven years. Seven years would push him into his fifties, make it even harder to get leading man roles. As if it wasn’t bad enough now, with Michael Sheen running around, snapping up all the best jobs.

If there was one thing he could say for the trip, it was that he’d barely thought about Mischa in days. The disconnected numbness from the start of the week wasn’t gone completely, but it was fading, the gaps slowly filling with more familiar sensations. Embarrassment and regret ebbed soothingly back into his consciousness, along with a low-level buzz of irritation that only a week with Rob could guarantee.

It wasn’t that Steve didn’t like Rob. They were, at the very least, Celebrity Friends, even if Rob’s celebrity status seemed dubious at best. It was more that Rob had never grasped the fact that the things Steve liked about him weren’t the same things that the Radio Times liked about him.

Steve had first met Rob Brydon ten years ago in a pub. In the men’s room, actually. Even then, Rob wasn’t exactly young – freshly divorced and just a little late to be making his big break into comedy. A peculiar little man with thinning hair, acne-ravaged skin and wide brown eyes. He’d cornered Steve by a urinal and pressed a home-made video cassette into his hands.

“I didn’t know him at the time, so it was a bit weird,” Steve had explained to a journalist a few years later. “When you’re on the telly and a strange Welshman gives you an unmarked tape in a pub toilet, you’re on potentially dodgy ground. There’s no guarantee that it won’t just turn out to be a video of him crying and wanking into the camera.”

Fortunately, in Rob’s case the tape had turned out to be an early incarnation of Marion and Geoff. Which actually wasn’t all that far off from crying and wanking into the camera, but at least it had jokes. Steve had liked it enough to help produce the series, which would go on to fail to win a BAFTA. And thus, a relatively fruitful Celebrity Friendship was born.

A few years later, someone from the Guardian had interviewed him about Rob. Steve had accidentally used the word ‘soulmate’ to describe him. He’d meant it in a professional, platonic way and swiftly undercut it with something mean-spirited, but he’d still regretted it almost instantly. Apart from all the stick he got from his real, non-Celebrity friends, Rob hadn’t let him live it down for weeks, bombarding Steve with campy text messages that had occasionally crossed the line into uncomfortable territory. Steve had, at the time, told himself that he was reading too much into the more personal ones, although by then he’d known Rob for long enough to know better.

Regardless, Steve had put Rob’s reaction down to the thrill of recognition and acceptance combined with an almost adolescent inability to take a compliment in the spirit it was intended. That and maybe the fact that Rob was between marriages at the time. He’d deleted most of the text messages and resolved to keep his soppier thoughts to himself in future. Around journalists, at least.

Back in the Range Rover, Steve drummed his fingers against the steering wheel and wondered what was holding Rob up. It was getting late and London was still almost two hundred miles away. And no one was waiting for him at the end of the journey. Although, at this point, going home to nobody seemed like a more attractive proposition than the upcoming two hundred miles in Rob’s company.

*

“Make sure you don’t leave a mess,” Steve warned, jerking his head in Rob’s direction. “If I find bits of floss on the floor after I get home, I’ll be sending you the cleaning bill.”

Rob made an impatient noise and got back to work on his teeth. Newspapers and bags of sweets poked out of the carrier bag he’d brought back from the service station. It looked like he’d spent a small fortune on magazines alone. Anyone would think they were driving to the North Pole.

“And don’t go leaving any of that behind either,” Steve gestured at the Mirror, poking out of the bag. “Last thing I need, cluttering up my car.”

“The newsagent suggested I pick it up,” Rob said, muffled slightly by the tape in his mouth. “Said there was something in it I’d find interesting. I wonder if they’ve seen my new DVD.”

“Hardly says wonderful things about your DVD if they like it,” Steve sniffed. He hoped the Guardian hadn’t seen Rob’s DVD. The Guardian was disproportionately generous about Rob’s work.

Rob finished flossing and pointedly threw the used tape out of the window. He turned and raised his eyebrows. “Happy?”

Steve’s lip twisted. “It’s not ideal, environmentally,” he said. “But it’ll do.”

“Why can’t I open your glove compartment?” Rob said. “You’ve got a Glock stashed away in there, haven’t you? LA’s changed you, Steve.”

“Have you ever heard of privacy?” Steve snapped. “Did that concept ever reach Port Talbot?”

“As a matter of fact, we’re a very generous people. The citizens of Port Talbot are renowned for opening our hearts and glove compartments to our neighbours.”

“You’re just bored,” Steve said. “You’re bored and you’re acting out. You know, a drive like this is nothing to Americans. In the States, a three hour drive is like a trip to the shops. They’d think of this as a commute.”

“I have been to America, Steve,” Rob said. “More than once, even. You can go there on planes nowadays.”

“Yes, but what I’m saying-“

“It’s not like they turn you away at the gate if you’ve never met Owen Wilson.”

“I’m not saying you’ve never been to America,” Steve said. “I’m just saying, there’s a difference. I’ve _worked_ in America. I know what it’s like over there and I’m trying to tell you something about driving.”

“Definitely a Glock,” Rob said, voice dark with mock concern. He probably didn’t even know what a Glock was. “You’re like when Dudley Moore went off the rails in the seventies.”

That didn’t sound historically accurate but Steve let it go, trying to remember what he might actually have in the glove compartment. An old A-Z of Brighton, most likely. Maybe some musty Polo mints. A couple of CDs. None of Rob’s business, whatever was in there. He shifted gears and did his best to tune out the sound of Rob’s voice.

*

Seven years ago, Steve had sat across a polished glass table in a dark hall and watched Rob lose his first BAFTA. He’d been working with Rob for a few years by then and they’d seen their fair share of late nights and rough patches, but this was the first time he’d seen anything really knock him. When the nominations were read out, Steve watched Rob start to smile harder than usual. His eyes automatically sought out the camera filming the ceremony, his whole body tensing up for a second before he forced himself to relax and absorb the blow when Ricky Gervais’ name was read out.

Perversely, the reason Steve remembered was because it was the first time that he’d ever found Rob attractive. A psychologist would probably have had something to say about that, but Steve put it down to Rob’s smart black suit and the champagne they’d been sharing. That and, perhaps, the nasty flood of adrenaline that was washing over him. He’d lost to Gervais the previous year, and the threat of Rob actually winning the award had been worrying at his nerves all day.

It wasn’t that he liked seeing Rob lose, he’d told himself at the time. It was just that if either of them had to lose – and somebody always had to lose – he’d rather it wasn’t him.

After the ceremony, as people started to disperse, Steve had pulled Rob into an awkward one-armed hug and mumbled something insincere about how it was all a fix and it was the nomination that mattered and no one even watched The Office anyway. Rob had just buried his face in Steve’s shoulder and taken a long, shuddering breath.

“Easy for you to say,” he’d said into Steve’s new jacket. “You’ve _got_ a BAFTA.”

Technically Steve had two. And he was starting to worry about his brand new suit. Vivian Westwood. Tailored. Rob wasn’t crying on it, exactly, but his mouth was opening and closing and that could easily leave a mark. He patted Rob’s back in a manner that he hoped was soothing and reminded him that, since this hadn’t killed him, it would almost certainly make him funnier.

In his mind, at the time, he’d been imagining the pretty girl who worked at the dry cleaner. He’d been working out how he was going to casually mention that he’d messed up his nice suit by comforting a colleague – a protégé, really - who’d been cruelly denied the major industry recognition he deserved.

“This probably looks a bit-” Rob was saying into Steve’s shoulder, still not straightening up. Steve was inclined to agree, but couldn’t quite bring himself to pull away. Over the top of Rob’s head, Steve could see Jane Root milling around a few tables away. If he hadn’t had Rob attached to his front, he probably could have made it across to her and pitched a sitcom. Instead, he just concentrated on rubbing wide circles up and down Rob’s back, hoping nobody would notice.

Rob had been blissfully unaware of the sacrifices Steve was making for him. His hands were still clutching at Steve’s back, doing untold damage to the jacket’s fabric. Steve glanced around, just to make sure there were no photographers, and let his hand slip up to stroke the back of Rob’s neck. The tips of his fingers brushed the ends of Rob’s hair, flushed and damp under the lights of the ceremonial hall. Rob had trembled and pressed back into his hand.

They’d had far too much champagne. Steve abruptly pulled away, clapping a stiff hand on Rob’s arm. When Rob straightened up, his breathing was uneven. His eyes were darker than ever and fixed on Steve’s mouth. It was awkward.

“Come on,” Steve had said, disengaging. He heard himself insisting that the after-party would be like nothing Rob had ever seen. He heard himself promise that that women loved an underdog and that Rob was guaranteed to sleep with at least one rising BBC starlet. Or, at the very least, someone’s assistant. It had seemed like an achievable goal. He took a careful, friendly step backwards and hoped Rob would get the message.

Sure enough, Rob’s whole body seemed to stiffen for a millisecond before he relaxed and flashed Steve the same smile that he’d pointed at the cameras a few hours before. Steve smiled back and looked right through him.

*

“I had a call from my agent before,” Rob announced through a mouthful of toffee Butterkist. “I’m going to be the face of Crunchy Nut Cornflakes.”

Steve glanced at him. Rob was slouched just a little too casually in the passenger seat. His eyes kept darting in Steve’s direction.

Steve said, “why did you buy popcorn? You just spent half an hour picking food out of your teeth.”

“I’ve got the floss now,” Rob pointed out. “My gums can rest easy.”

Steve grunted.

“Apparently I have a meeting with the Kelloggs people next week,” Rob said. He adopted a generic brogue that might have been Sean Connery and might have been Terry Wogan, “they move fast in the world of breakfast cereal.”

Steve poured all of his energy into changing gears.

“I suppose I shouldn’t have accepted it, what with my skin being the way it is,” Rob said. He was tensing up a little in his seat, turned slightly towards Steve. “It probably invites unwanted comparison.”

It was getting difficult to pretend not to notice Rob talking. Steve adjusted his rear view mirror and refused to take the bait. His eyes looked craggy around the corners.

“So that’s it,” Rob’s voice was flat. “You’ve got nothing to say. Not even a ‘congratulations’?”

Steve kept his eyes on the road. “If you’re so insecure that you need to be congratulated for getting a breakfast cereal advert, then I don’t know what to tell you.”

Rob exhaled, long and slow and loud. Neither of them said anything. Rob shoved a handful of popcorn in his mouth and crunched loudly. Steve turned on the radio.

*

On Tuesday night, Steve had dreamed about chasing a tiny white hare through a forest. As the hare darted ahead and the path faded beneath his feet, he pushed himself harder, determined to propel himself forwards into the darkness. When the hotel fire alarm sliced through the dream at two in the morning, he woke up in a cold sweat, breathless and shocky.

As the alarm blasted through the building, he’d pulled on some clothes and filed outside, half-awake and still disorientated, following a stream of holidaymakers and hotel staff. He kept one hand on his phone, reflexively checking for texts, missed calls and emails. Something from America, he hoped. An audition, maybe, or a meeting. Or even just a _hello_.

Nothing. But then, the signal in Cumbria was terrible.

In the car park, people were automatically merging into clusters. Members of staff and family groups converged and chattered in the icy darkness. Steve found his way to Rob, who was wrapped in pyjamas and a complimentary dressing gown, staring into the stretch of night above them. Rob looked even more haggard than usual in the moonlight, his skin washed pale and pockmarked. But he’d beamed at the sight of Steve.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Rob said, a touch of jovial awe in his voice. “I can’t remember the last time I saw this many stars. But then, I don’t get invited to the Hollywood parties that you do.”

“Actually, I was thinking about Mischa,” Steve said. His voice was distant in his ears. “She’s going to let the deputy editor of Vanity Fair fuck her. He might have already done it by now. In a penthouse, probably.”

“Oh,” Rob said.

“Might have been a commissioning editor,” Steve corrected himself. “She just wanted a freelance gig, not a full-time job.”

Rob pursed his lips together. “I’m not really up on the workings of the magazine industry,” he admitted. Then his eyes had narrowed. “Just how did you get this assignment with the Observer, Steve?”

It wasn’t very funny, with hindsight. But at the time Steve would have laughed at anything. And it was worth it to see the unguarded delight that lit up Rob’s face whenever Steve laughed at his jokes, even the rubbish ones. Not that Steve made a habit of laughing at the rubbish ones.

Eventually someone with a fluorescent lollipop lady jacket and a clipboard told them it was safe to go back to bed. Steve had started back, almost on autopilot. It wasn’t until his hand was on his bedroom door handle that he realised Rob was loitering at his elbow.

Steve looked at him. “You aren’t on this floor,” he said.

It wasn’t an accusation, he’d honestly been confused. But Rob had immediately taken an apologetic step back, as though he’d been caught trespassing. Steve took in the tight angle of his shoulders under the oversized dressing gown. Rob looked everywhere but at Steve, and something had clicked into place in the back of Steve’s head.

He should have sent Rob back to his room. Maybe made a joke to ease the awkwardness and make it seem like less of a dismissal. But instead, he took a deep breath and thought about Mischa and Hollywood and his kids and all the other things he didn’t quite have. Rob was steadying himself, putting a too-easy smile in place. Preparing to be knocked back. It was almost embarrassing, how easy it would be.

“Stay out of the mini-bar,” Steve had finally said. “It’s not covered by expenses.”

Rob had almost finished constructing his ‘graceful loser’ smile when Steve’s remark hit home. Steve didn’t acknowledge the hum of satisfaction he felt as he watched the smile drop away, replaced by something wary and, perhaps, hopeful.

He left his bedroom door ajar and didn’t have to look back to know that Rob would follow him inside.

*

The Mirror was splayed open across Rob’s lap. Supplements and loose advertising leaflets were scattering across his seat and strewn across the floor. He was frowning at the reviews page, unable to spot any mention of his new DVD.

“Maybe the guy was just winding you up,” Steve suggested. “Or maybe he didn’t recognise you and just thought you looked like a man who loves to read The Mirror.”

Rob ignored him, flicking further through the pages in search of himself. The newsprint was smearing onto his fingers, staining the tips black.

“Don’t touch anything with those hands,” Steve warned him. “Bad enough you’ve given them your money, I don’t need you ruining my seats.”

“It just doesn’t make sense,” Rob was saying. “As a general rule, newsagents _like_ me. I do very well with the newsagent demographic.”

“I’ve never wondered how newsagents feel about me,” Steve admitted. “I know how fans of arthouse cinema feel about me-”

“Ambivalent,” Rob put in, still buried in the paper.

Steve sputtered.

Rob was checking the celebrity gossip pages, “I imagine newsagents like you a lot, considering how many tabloids they’ve sold with your face on them. You’re probably a big hit with them.”

“Arthouse cinema fans love me,” Steve said. “I get people coming up to me in the street and asking me questions about Sophia Coppola.”

That got Rob’s attention. “They do not.”

“They do,” Steve insisted. He scratched something behind his ear. “They have done. A few times.” On one occasion it had turned out to be an excuse to get him talking so he wouldn’t see it coming when the bloke interrupted him with an ear-shattering _A-ha!_ and ran off. But that time still counted.

Rob made a surprised noise and turned his attention back to the newspaper.

“Usually people just want to know what she said about her dad,” Steve admitted. “Which is a bit pointless. Surely at that point, anything you’re going to find out is so far removed that-”

“ _Oh_ ,” Rob said.

“Yeah, I know,” Steve said. “It’s completely ridiculous.”

“No,” Rob said. “I’ve found out what the newsagent wanted me to see.”

Steve glanced at him.

“You’re not going to like it,” Rob said.

“I told you,” Steve said. “I don’t find it threatening if the Mirror likes you. Being liked by wankers isn’t an achievement, Rob.”

“Page thirty-seven,” Rob declared. “Right at the bottom, underneath a fascinating article about a dog that learned to whistle the alphabet: ‘KNOWING ME, KNOWING WHO?’”

Steve wondered which was worse. The headline itself or the fact that it was on page thirty-seven. “I didn’t know they did thirty-seven pages,” he said. “I didn’t even know they could count past twelve.”

“The ‘WHO’ is in italics,” Rob noted.

“Can we not?” Steve said. “I’m really not in the mood.”

“‘He may be a hit with the ladies of Hollywood, but funnyman Steve Coogan was spotted this week going back to his roots with an unexpected guest.’” Rob read out.

“Jesus,” Steve said. “Funnyman. You do realise that ‘funnyman’ is code for ‘cunt’?”

Rob continued, “‘The unlucky-in-love Coogan, more notorious for his thrusting personal life than his flagging career, is rumoured to be spending a quiet week with long-term comedy partner Rob Brydon.’” He brightened, “I notice that I’m not a funnyman.”

“It might just mean that you aren’t funny,” Steve pointed out. “I don’t like this ‘long-term partner’ business, though. That’s code too, you know.”

“I don’t think it’s even code on this occasion,” Rob said. It was hard to tell if he was amused or anxious. “‘The pair have been caught giggling over indulgent gourmet meals at some of the best hotels in the wild and picturesque North of Britain.

A source close to Steve was tight-lipped about the nature of the pair’s tryst, but let’-”

“Tryst! When did it turn into a tryst?”

Rob flinched. Steve ignored him, fighting a stab of guilt. “When did _they_ get the impression that it was a tryst?” he clarified before Rob had a chance to point out the uncomfortable, obvious facts of the situation.

“If you just let me finish,” Rob said. “‘A source close to Steve was tight-lipped about the nature of the pair’s tryst, but let it slip that the two were ‘accidentally’ booked into the same room in at least one of their hotels. What happens in Barnsley stays in Barnsley, eh lads?’”

Steve felt very tired all of a sudden. “We didn’t even go to Barnsley,” he said. “There aren’t any fucking five star restaurants in Barnsley.”

Rob’s lips were a thin line. “The ‘accidentally’ is in inverted commas,” he said grimly.

Steve looked up at that. “Wait,” he said. “Is that all they’re basing the story on? Whitewell?”

Rob shrugged.

“We didn’t even end up sharing that room,” Steve could feel his blood boil. He tried to work out the timeline in his head. “I slept with Magda – the Polish girl - that night. It’s all just innuendo. I could phone them right now, get her to back me up-”

“So your plan, effectively, is to kiss and tell on yourself?”

“Well, yeah,” Steve said. “Compared with the alternative. No offence.”

“Or we could just let it drop. Given that I have far more to lose here than you.”

“What with your wife and your panel shows and your lucrative Crunchy Nut Cornflakes job.” Steve bit down on the tinge of bitterness that crept into his voice. He hated the idea that Rob might get the impression that he was bitter about any of the things Rob had.

“It’s not like the world of arthouse cinema’s going to be rocked by a gay scandal,” Rob pointed out. “I’ve got to make a living. I’m mainstream.”

“I’m mainstream,” Steve protested. “I’ve worked with Jackie Chan and Ben Stiller. You don’t get any more mainstream than that. I’m just mainstream with _standards_.”

He wondered who’d leaked the news about the shared room on Monday night. Someone from the hotel, maybe? Magda trying to get some sort of weird revenge? Maybe he hadn’t been a good enough shag. Or maybe it was someone from Emma’s office, drunk or coked up at a party, spouting off. He hoped it wasn’t Emma. Emma was normally so reliable. It would be a shame to lose her. He stared at the license plate of the car in front of them. The letters didn’t spell anything good.

“Anyway,” he said. “It’s not a gay scandal. It’s not even a scandal.”

“If it was a scandal,” Rob mused. “I would probably class it as a gay one.”

“Would you just-”

“At the very least, it’s a bisexual scandal.”

“I know you like attention, Rob,” Steve said. “And I know you have this compulsion to seek it out at every opportunity. But there’s such a thing as the wrong kind of attention.”

He heard his voice rise to an uncomfortable pitch and shut his mouth firmly.

“Would it help if I held your hand?” Rob said. His voice was incongruously, absurdly gentle. “You’ll need to change gears eventually, but it might be nice just for a moment.”

Steve couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. To be safe, he didn’t actually look at Rob and just said, “no thanks, I’m fine.”

*

Four years ago, Rob told the Telegraph that Steve had taught him how to chat up women. The journalist had probably taken the quote out of context, of course. Or gotten the wrong end of the stick. But, either way, the published interview had been a little too suggestive for Steve’s taste:

 _“I grew up without that social lubricant, without that thing that makes meeting girls easier. I didn't find it until I met a man who found meeting girls very easy.” Brydon smiles, arches an eyebrow. “And with Steve ordering champagne all the time, I realised how relaxed and sociable alcohol can make you.”_

It wasn’t the worst thing about Steve that had ended up in the papers, but it had set something hot and outraged humming inside him when he’d seen it. That prompted a flurry of phone calls to his agent, to his publicist and eventually to Emma, who’d promised to put in a call to Rob’s people.

That Sunday, Rob had phoned him up to apologise in the middle of Top Gear.

“I don’t know what’s more annoying,” Steve had said, muting the volume and frowning at a BMW that looked like a knock-off Ford. “First of all, you made me sound like a date rapist. And secondly-” he broke off. Even over the phone he wasn’t sure he wanted to address the other thing.

He’d heard Rob’s scoff down the line. “You think it sounds gay. Do you really think people are going to be reading gay subtext into an interview with the Telegraph?”

“I don’t think it sounds _gay_ ,” Steve had said. “But did you really do that eyebrow thing?”

“I have eyebrows, Steve, you can’t ask me not to use them,” Rob had said with dignity. “Eyebrows are the tools of my trade. I’m like Roger Moore in that regard.” He was hovering on the edge of an impression.

“Yeah, well,” Steve said, cutting him off before he could start. “Maybe exercise a bit more restraint with the eyebrows next time you talk to a journalist about getting drunk with me.”

Rob had made a dismissive noise down the phone. Disconcertingly, Steve knew exactly what his eyebrows had just done, even without being able to see him.

“What in God’s name is James May wearing?” Rob said, trying to make it sound casual. As though he’d just happened to switch over to the same channel that Steve was watching. Rob was like that - he liked to smooth things over and move on from fights as quickly as possible. Steve would have happily stayed a little longer in the moment, enjoying the way Rob was sparking against him, clipped and defensive. But Rob had apologised, sort of, and it felt churlish not to reward that.

“Nice car, though,” Rob had added idly. Both of them knew for a fact that Rob didn’t know the first thing about cars.

Steve had brightened, launching into a lengthy explanation of just why Rob – and James May – had been completely wrong about the BMW. He knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he’d fallen into a trap. That Rob had tricked him into a friendly conversation when they were meant to be fighting. That he was still supposed to be chastising Rob for giving ammunition to journalists.

Instead, Steve had let himself relax into his armchair and left the television on mute. He’d talked over the next twenty-five minutes of Top Gear, caught up in ideas and arguments and the sheer joy of Rob’s unselfconscious laughter.

*

“Do you mind if I ask you a delicate question?” There was a cautious note in Rob’s voice. He was steepling his fingers too, which didn’t actually work in the passenger seat of a car.

Steve blinked away the unwelcome memory of Rob’s face tilted upwards, his eyes closing. The unapologetic way he’d put himself in Steve’s hands. He winced. But Rob was a grown man. Steve had assumed he’d known how things worked. And Steve liked him better when he was on edge.

“A delicate question,” Steve repeated.

Normally Steve had the good sense to avoid one-night stands with people who he’d be obliged to chauffeur around the country for four more days. It wasn’t a hard and fast rule, but that was just because the situation had never come up before.

“That's correct,” Rob said. “Very delicate.”

If Steve didn't need to keep his eyes on the road, he would have closed his eyes. Instead, he tightened his grip on the steering wheel and watched the trees and signs on the roadside as they shrank in his rear view mirror. He imagined Rob disappearing from the passenger seat and materialising by the side of the road. He imagined how small Rob would look on the horizon as the Range Rover sped down the motorway, back to London.

When he took a deep breath and glanced to his left, Rob was still there. So he just said, “Go on.”

“Hamlet 2,” Rob said, and Steve felt the breath he was holding whoosh irritably out of him.

“Hamlet 2,” he said. There was a wavering note of incredulity in his voice. He couldn't be bothered to try and suppress it.

“I know that you’ve heard an American accent before,” Rob said. “You’ve got an agent over there. And you’ve seen films with Americans in them. So I’d honestly like to know what possessed you to talk like-”

“This is pathetic,” Steve said, relief pumping adrenaline through his veins and priming him for a fight. “I’m serious. Did you actually go out of your way to watch Hamlet 2 just so you could pick holes in my accent?”

“No, actually, no,” Rob said. “I watched Hamlet 2 because I thought, _oh look, Steve’s starring in an American comedy. I do hope it’ll be as good as the one with Jackie Chan and Arnold Schwarzenegger_.”

Steve opened his mouth to defend himself.

“Although I have to tell you,” Rob said. “It wasn’t easy to find. Had to end up pirating it off the internet, I’m afraid, so you won’t be getting any royalties.”

“They don’t know what I sound like in America-” Steve started to say. It was a pre-prepared explanation. It was what he’d been planning to tell Jonathan Ross. In the end he hadn’t needed to. They never ended up releasing Hamlet 2 in the UK, most likely because people would have been put off by the accent.

“They know what _they_ sound like. They know that nobody talks like _that_.”

“Yes, but they’ve never heard my real voice. A man they’ve never seen before talking in an American accent isn’t weird for them. It’s just normal,” Steve said.

“Your real voice,” Rob said. “No one knows what your _real_ voice sounds like. You could sound like Stephen Hawking for all I know. ”

A girl had told Steve once that his voice got more Mancunian right before the point of orgasm. He’d thought about incorporating it into his comedy somehow, but he’d never found the right angle. He decided not to bring it up now.

Instead he said, “Hamlet 2 may have been misunderstood but I stand behind it as a piece of art. At its centre, it’s a film about striving to rise above disappointment and overcome his own inadequacies. The worst thing you could say about it is that it didn’t live up to its concept.” Steve jabbed at the air with a finger, “which is more than you can say for a Crunchy Nut Cornflakes advert.”

So there.

“It’s not an attractive quality, you know,” Rob said. “The way you begrudge other people the slightest success.”

“I don’t begrudge,” Steve said. “You’ve done plenty of work that you can be proud of. Marion and Geoff. Perfectly serviceable, BAFTA nominated, can’t say a word against it.”

“Executive producer, Steve Coogan,” Rob said. His eyes were fixed on Steve, refusing to give ground.

“Human Remains,” Steve said. “Nothing wrong with Human Remains.”

“Also, coincidentally, produced by Mr Steve Coogan,” Rob noted. There was a note of dawning glee in his voice, that didn’t quite make sense. Steve decided to push ahead anyway, since he was winning.

“To be honest,” Steve said, “I’m groping for anything good you’ve done without my help. Even Gavin and Stacey, which is far from your best-”

“What you’re saying-” Rob interrupted him. The increasing delight in his voice was a warning note if ever Steve heard one. “What I’m hearing is that you think I’ve done my best work under you.”

“Okay,” Steve said. But what he meant was, _oh, shit_. In his mind’s eye, he saw a cage door slam shut behind him. He wondered if there was the slightest chance that Rob wouldn’t go for the obvious next line.

“Which is funny, really, considering you let me be on top.”

 _Say what you like about Rob Brydon_ , Steve thought. _He never misses a punchline._

“On Tuesday night,” Rob clarified. And now he was openly grinning.

“Yes,” Steve said, wondering if now would be a good time to swerve into a passing truck. “Thank you.”

*

On Wednesday, Steve had tiptoed the awkward line between being pleasant to the man who’d offered him comfort in his darkest hour and establishing that, with the best will in the world, he never wanted to discuss his darkest hour ever again. Ever.

Rob had, unfortunately, been a little slow on the uptake.

Steve had done his best not to encourage things. He’d hastily sidestepped any suggestion that the evening in Coleridge’s house could be romantic. He’d avoided Rob’s knowing smile across the dinner table, reminding himself that he’d spent nearly ten years carefully disregarding Rob’s feelings and there was no need to start acknowledging them now.

Unfortunately, his mind had other ideas.

The previous night, he’d tilted his head back to let Rob press awkward kisses to his neck. The skin pulled taut around his jawline and, he hoped, made it look less saggy. It had also meant that he hadn’t had to kiss Rob on the mouth, which was a sort of guilty bonus. Either Rob hadn’t realised or he hadn’t cared because he’d just brushed his lips against the base of Steve’s throat, making a small, pleased noise as though that was exactly what he’d wanted anyway.

Across the table at Holbeck Ghyl, Steve had kept a wary eye on Rob and wondered what it must be like to want anything – any _one_ \- so shamelessly. An anxious tension was creeping into Rob’s posture and Steve firmly reminded himself that there weren’t any rules and that he didn’t owe Rob anything. He tried to pick apart the unique threads of envy and guilt and distaste that Rob seemed to effortlessly inspire but was forced to concede defeat. It was easier – always had been easier – to just pretend not to remember anything he didn’t want to remember.

It was easier still when Rob turned on the twinkly-eyed Granny-pleasing charm at Dove cottage. That performance would be enough to turn anyone off, he told himself. There was shameless, and then there was _shameless_. And then there was Rob Brydon.

That evening, limbs stiff and heavy with exhaustion and disappointment and an inexplicable sense of loss, Steve had lit up a joint in Coleridge’s softly-lit bedroom. Rob had sat silently facing him, bearing disapproving witness.

Steve had always looked better in low lighting – an art director had told him once. Soft lighting made him seem more likeable and brought out the highlights in his eyes. That was ITV evening drama lighting, though. Not the Hollywood romantic lead lighting that he’d still been holding out for at the time.

“Of course you look good in candlelight,” Rob said, sounding unhappy. “Everyone looks good in candlelight.”

“Well, yes.” Steve had said. “But me especially. I’ve got the right kind of skin.”

Rob looked better in harsher lights, actually, Steve had thought. If he’d had more presence of mind, he would have been alarmed to realise that the thought wasn’t a new one. He’d known for years that Rob was at his best in stark whites. Bright, cold lights that highlighted his sharp edges and picked out his flaws. Not that Rob would ever believe it.

“Your problem,” Steve had said, a little too loudly because he was talking over a shock of self-awareness that was suddenly rocking his insides. “Your problem is that you think being likeable is the same thing as being funny.”

The filter paper turned red and then black and then burned away. Steve scrubbed the ash into Coleridge’s carpet with his foot, offering up a mute mental apology to the man.

Rob hadn’t been open to new experiences that night. Not that they would have been new experiences anymore. Steve wondered, idly, if he'd been thinking about his family. Rob was probably the sort of person who'd worry about his family. Steve hadn't wanted to do anything anyway. Instead he’d sunk further into the dark, sleepy warmth of the drug and basked in the quiet condemnation of Rob’s eyes on his body.

*

“So,” Rob said brightly. Steve noticed that he’d dropped the empty popcorn bag on the floor, obviously trying to take advantage of Steve’s flustered distraction. “Since we’re on the subject-”

“We’re not on the subject,” Steve said. “We’re moving away from the subject. Tell me about Elvis or Tom Jones or something.”

“Since we’re on the subject,” Rob continued, undaunted and frighteningly chipper. “Marks out of ten, please.”

“The history of Port Talbot without hesitation, deviation or repetition,” Steve suggested. “Do your Anthony Hopkins again.” Please don’t make me talk about this.

“Feel free to throw in any constructive criticism you think might help me,” Rob was apparently determined to ruin the last hour of the drive home. “Imagine it’s my first week on Strictly and you’re Bruno Toniole.” There was an Italian accent creeping into his vowels but, by Rob’s standards, it was impressively restrained.

Steve would have put his face in his hands if he didn't need them on the steering wheel. “Don't think I didn't notice you littering just now,” he said, his voice tight.

“Personally, I’d give myself a solid seven,” Rob was using his light entertainment voice, only very slightly strained. “Definitely room for improvement, but a promising start for a beginner.”

Rob sounded more polished and confident than he would have done if he was coming up with this off the cuff. Steve kept quiet and wondered how long Rob had sat in front of the mirror, practicing this little speech. Steve was obviously supposed to be laughing, or maybe smiling. Steve definitely wasn’t supposed to be staring at the road, willing him to please stop talking. Rob had always been hard work.

Steve could see a battered silver Toyota in the rear-view mirror, one lane along. It looked like it was trying to overtake them. He swore at it under his breath.

“Although,” Rob was still ploughing ahead, something frantic dancing at the edges of each word. “Between you and me, I’d argue that my long-term comedy partner wasn’t giving me all the support I needed towards the end. But still, I’d call it a seven at least.”

“Four,” Steve snapped, if only to get him to stop. “In terms of sexual performance, I’d give you four out of ten. And that’s being generous.”

Rob went very pale and still for a moment. Steve waited for him to plaster his rolling-with-the-punches smile over the disappointment.

“You’re not even my long-term comedy partner,” Steve said, not looking at Rob’s face. “I don’t have a comedy partner. You’re an occasional collaborator. If that.”

“I said Bruno Toniole,” Rob said, trying for glib and coming out just a little flat. “Not Arlene Phillips.”

“You know this is lost on me,” Steve fixed his attention on the Toyota. Rob was taking longer to recover than usual. “I’m sure it’s hilarious if you know who these people are.”

“Arlene was the mean one. She’s not in it anymore,” Rob said. His eyes followed Steve’s to the flash of silver in their periphery. “They sacked her because she got too old to be on TV.”

That gave Steve pause. “Do I want to know how old she was?”

“A bit older than you,” Rob sounded vindictive. “But not what you’d call geriatric.”

The wanker in the Toyota was gaining on them.

“It’s probably different for women,” Steve said. “Double standards and everything.”

“Oh, definitely,” Rob said. He didn’t sound convinced.

Silence hung over them both. Something in the back of Steve’s mind wanted to apologise for everything, over and over again. He usually got over that instinct by finding something to criticise.

What he wanted to say was that it was a stupid mistake. That they shouldn’t have done it at all, but if they _had_ to do it, it should have been ten years ago. Back then, Rob would have appreciated it more and Steve wouldn’t have had to spend half the time worrying about his chin.

Instead he said: “If I were to say anything - and I’m hesitant to say anything at all. But if I were to say one thing, it’s that I could have done without the Pacino impression. It took me out of the moment and it made you seem nervous.”

On the upside, Rob did have more hair now than he’d had ten years ago. But he’d been cagey about letting Steve touch it. The way the girls in LA sometimes were about their new tits.

“Normally I do Hugh Grant,” Rob said. “But I didn’t think you'd go for that.”

Steve nodded. “I appreciate the consideration,” he found himself saying. He really did. Hugh Grant had stolen a lot of roles from him over the years before Michael Sheen had gotten in on the act. It would have been distracting.

“And one comment I’d make about you-” Rob started to say.

Steve wouldn’t call himself a perfectionist, but he’d always made a point of taking constructive criticism on board. And if he couldn’t bring himself to talk to Rob, the least he could do was listen. It wasn’t until Rob trailed off that Steve realised he was bracing himself and Rob was looking right at him, eyes sharp with something dangerously close to pity.

“Never mind,” Rob said, turning his attention to the road. His voice was a little colder than usual. “Maybe I don’t need to say it.”

Steve wasn’t sure if he could count that as a lucky escape or a vicious condemnation, but at least Rob was being quiet now.

*

A few years ago, Steve had failed to attend Rob’s wedding. He’d been invited, obviously, but he’d been filming something in the States at the time. Rob had emailed him a few photographs a few weeks later. He’d clicked through them on the computer in his trailer and sent back some heartfelt-sounding congratulations. It was the least he could do.

His own marriage hadn’t quite broken down by that point, but it wasn’t in great shape. The fact that he and his wife were on different continents was, if anything, an improvement. Not that he kept track of these things, but it was a safe bet that on the night that Rob had gotten married, Steve had been out at a party or entertaining Hollywood lap dancers with his co-stars.

He hadn’t looked too hard at the wedding pictures, trying to get the gist without having to see the details. Rob’s suit wasn’t tailored, it had obviously been designed for a taller man. His wife looked comfortable and age-appropriate. His family looked proud and Welsh. He’d surrounded himself with nonentities like David Walliams and a woman whose name Steve couldn’t quite place. He hadn’t thought he’d needed to anymore. Steve was making a film that, at the time, had seemed like a serious career move. He’d been convinced he was moving up the ladder, reinventing himself, meeting people with names worth remembering. Along the way, he was sleeping with a string of girls whose names he didn’t have to remember, most of whom knew him as _that British bit-part guy_.

Steve occasionally got recognised in America. But it was rarer. It was usually by women who were more likely to know him from parties than from the telly, but who still twisted their hair around their fingers and told him that he was _sooo funny_. It made a change from being cornered in pubs by saddos who wanted to know what it was like to work with Chris Morris. It definitely made a change from staying in with his family and fighting over whose turn it was to do the washing up.

Of course, that was when he’d still had a family. And back in those days, his movie career had felt like something that was actually happening, rather than a lie his agent had told him. With hindsight, he’d come to regret that he hadn’t foreseen the rise of Michael Sheen. But then, who’d seen Michael Sheen coming? No one could have predicted Michael Sheen.

Steve knew that he was probably Rob’s oldest friend in the industry – Rob had known him longer than his wife, longer than his agent, and definitely longer than David Walliams. Rob wasn’t _his_ oldest friend, though. Steve had a whole life and career that didn’t involve Rob at all. A proper career, with awards and American celebrities and everything.

He’d deleted the photographs from his computer without looking at them properly, ignoring the odd, proprietary pang in his chest and telling himself that he already knew what Rob looked like when he was happy. That he didn’t need to see it again. He reminded himself that goals were easier to achieve when you set your sights low, and that was all that Rob had done. He sat in the artificial chill of his trailer and drank bottled water and told himself that, objectively, there was no one in Britain that he had to be jealous of.

Except for Michael fucking Sheen. But he hadn’t known that at the time.

*

For all that the North was supposed to be grim, there wasn't much to be said for Rob’s suburb. Steve eased the Range Rover through the maze of cosy Edwardian streets, trying to figure out what turns he needed to take to find Rob’s house. Rob was no help. He’d been sulking since before they got off the M1. Steve never would have guessed that Rob was capable of keeping quiet for so long.

Steve wasn't sulking. He'd just run out of things to say. There was a difference.

“I probably won’t complain,” he said finally, just to break the weight of the silence that had been hanging over them. “To the Mirror, I mean. About the article. Going to rise above it.”

In the passenger seat, Rob nodded.

“It’s a lot of hassle,” Steve said. “Chasing after witnesses, threatening legal action,” backing down from the legal action, making more enemies, having it happen all over again two weeks later. “Better to just let it die. People won’t remember in a month.”

“And, of course,” Rob sounded wary. He inclined his head meaningfully rather than actually finishing his sentence.

“Yeah,” Steve said. “That, too.”

More silence.

“Don’t take this as an excuse to go selling your story to the tabloids,” Steve warned him, waving a finger. “I need you to set a good example. For the others.”

Rob heaved a put-upon sigh. “I’m beginning to think this was more trouble than it was worth,” he said. But there was a twinkle in his voice, and for once it didn’t grate on Steve’s nerves.

Neither of them looked at each other, but Rob’s breathing calmed. Some of the unspoken accusations and resentment seemed to clear from the air.

Obviously there was still resentment. But closer to the usual levels. Nothing hostile.

Steve shook his head. “I don't know how you can live in a place like this,” he said. It was the sort of place that people with wives and kids lived. Maybe there were BBC commissioners in the neighbourhood. Maybe Rob was playing a long game, planning on sending his baby to school with the children of channel executives. He probably found ways to bump into them in Waitrose. Steve wouldn’t put it past him. “I can’t even find your street.”

“It’s tucked away,” Rob said with satisfaction. “Take a left here and then another one at the end of the road.” He pulled out his iPhone and poked it for a few seconds before cursing under his breath.

Out of the corner of his eye, Steve could see the familiar black screen that meant Rob’s battery had died. “There’s a charger in the glove compartment,” he said, waving a hand in vague invitation, trying to sound as casual and unapologetic as possible.

“It’s okay,” Rob said absently, clearly still lamenting his phone. “I’ll plug it in when I get home. It’ll only be a minute.”

“You could have a look in there anyway, if you like,” Steve said, feeling awkward and foolish as the words stumbled out on top of each other. Rob looked up in surprise, and he added hastily, “There’s nothing in there, I haven’t bought you a present or anything. I just thought, you know, as a gesture-”

Rob shook his head, but he was smiling. “I think I’d prefer not to lose the mystery,” he said. “But thanks all the same.”

Rob moved slowly, obviously trying not to cause any last-minute accidents, giving Steve plenty of time to stop him. They both watched as he reached across the car and loosely covered Steve's hand with his own. His fingers brushed the Range Rover’s steering wheel.

“Get off,” Steve said, making no effort to shake Rob’s hand away or suppress his smile. He couldn’t bring himself to make his voice as stern as it needed to be. “I’m trying to drive.” Rob just tightened his hand.

They were nearly at Rob’s house, Steve realised uneasily. He was going to have to change gears very soon. But, just for the moment, this would do.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of fiction based on the fictional characters portrayed by Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon in The Trip, rather than RPS. As with The Trip itself, there's mention of various periods and events in Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon's respective careers. Sometimes I've blurred the lines of fiction and reality a bit. Sometimes I blurred them a lot. Mostly I just made things up. I would advise you not to cite this fic as a source if you're writing a thesis on the life and works of Rob Brydon.
> 
> You should definitely write a thesis on the life and works of Rob Brydon, though. Steve would be so jealous.


End file.
